


A Worm Will Turn

by AntigravityDevice



Category: Arkham Horror (Board Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Lovecraftian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2809562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntigravityDevice/pseuds/AntigravityDevice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hideous murders are taking place right as the city of Arkham is preparing for the spring festival. Mandy Thompson saw it all coming, and with her fearless librarian friend, as well as the federal agent new in town who harbours her own agendas and a cop too good for the local police force, must find a way to stop an ancient horror from worming its way into their world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malkontent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malkontent/gifts).



> This fic uses the Kingsport Horror and Innsmouth Horror expansions to the game.

Daisy Walker tapped the table leg with her shoe. The sound echoed dully in the hushed gloom of the library. It was late, and she had decisively directed two laggard anthropology students out of the door almost an hour earlier. Now the only sources of illumination were the shimmer of early summer stars peeking in through the curtains, her own reading lamp, and the steady light from under the door of research room number three. It remained closed. Daisy sighed exasperation at the innocent book she wasn't truly reading, and dropped it onto her lap. _The Green Hat_ , its spine barely cracked. It truly wasn't the book's fault. She had enjoyed Arlen's ghost stories well enough.

She had had other literary pursuits of late.

The research room door flew open, and out burst animated conversation, held by professor Hartley (of the belief that relevant information hadn't been committed to paper since the 18th century) and the researcher Mandy Thompson, flustered as usual. She was trailing papers as she followed him.

"But sir, the readings -- weather reports, geographical information, I have _correlations_ , if you would please look at--"

Her pleading had the cynical edge of someone who's already found themselves betting on the lame horse. The professor smiled as he brushed away her offers of papers, treading a firm path towards the door.

"Miss Thompson, please, calm yourself. I assure you, I'll give your findings a good read, once you've put together a comprehensive report. As it is, I'm sorry, but it's late and I simply don't have your spare time."

He left Mandy standing in the middle of the twilit library hall, staring morosely at the heavy, closed door. Daisy was about to say something -- she never had liked professor Hartley -- when Mandy shattered the silence herself, clicking the heavy heel of her shoe against the stone floor. She turned around to face Daisy, flushed with frustration.

"He can't even tell me no to my face! Why can't I ever seem to find anyone with a smidgeon of respect?"

"Or a certain willingness for understanding?" Daisy offered.

"Curiosity, even. I would settle for curiosity!"

"Empathy? A knack for being there when you need it, and absent when not?"

Mandy gestured at the empty library around them, her arms flying towards Natural History and Biographies. "Oh yes, marvellous. Where, Daisy dear, am I to find a fellow academic like that? Or just a fella, even. Not in Arkham, it seems. Not in the whole of Arkham."

Daisy put the Arlen aside, and stepped out from behind her desk. "A fella? I was talking about my cat."

It pulled a laugh out from behind Mandy's strained nerves, which relaxed her, settled her features and made her look a bit better put together. It was curious, really, how slapdash her appearance was, compared with her neatly compartmentalized mind. Daisy had never seen Mandy in an outfit that looked to be her size; her overcoat was a tent, while her shirt was, well. Daisy wouldn't, but someone might call it indecent, and not in a modern jazz-girl kind of way. One couldn't help it if one happened to possess a decidedly unfashionable bosom.

"I doubt a hissing hell-beast would help bring any attention whatsoever to my research," Mandy lamented. "It's too esoteric, too much theory for the Miskatonic academic mind. If I hadn't settled for the damp lab in the basement I wouldn't even have a place on campus where to conduct my experiments! Well, see how they like it when the theoretical becomes very much practical and dimensional complications start to show up..."

Daisy kept her foot from tapping. She felt for her, she did, but she had to lock up and get home. She thought about the book waiting for her on the nightstand, and suffered a pang of impatient longing, like the leather-bound volume was a ghost limb.

She raised her hands, to dam the flow of woes. "It's getting on ten o'clock. Let's leave off metaphysical discussion, which is neither here nor there, shall we?" She enunciated carefully, the only way to cite someone she respected. "If I agree that what is, is?"

Mandy sighed. "Then this I call being quite perspicuous and... and extremely fair." She bit her lip red, and gave a wry smile. "Well put, Miss Walker, you wily bird. I can't argue with Lord Byron and you know it."

"Who in all creation could? I'll see you tomorrow, Mandy."

Mandy picked up her scattered papers and arranged them into a pile. "Nine o'clock sharp. I shall be needing the research room three again, if that's all right."

"Your name's on it, my dear."

When the door closed behind Mandy, her frame now wrapped in a ridiculously oversized coat against the spring chill, Daisy was left feeling like something of an oaf. Her friend was upset, and she knew well indeed what wonders a late cup of coffee in like-minded company could do. They had spent many a pleasant evening in the tiny office of the closed library, going over books, picking apart and praising with equal enthusiasm.

She swallowed against another wave of longing rising within her at the thought of those thick leather covers, the soft, finger-worn paper of the frayed pages, the scrawled sidenotes trickling down the sides like lace. In her life, books always came first, and she had never been so fascinated by a written account before the first volume of _The Revelations of Glaaki_ had crossed her desk a month earlier. She had now started on volume two of the ten, and had an inkling where the sprawling narrative was getting to. It was a slow build of the kind she most enjoyed in the mystery tales, but something about the conviction of the narrator unsettled her. The book was fiction, certainly, fantastical to the extreme in its subject matter, but the apparent honesty of the anonymous writer made her doubt she was reading about ideas borne out of a sane mind.

The book pulled her into her coat and out of the door, and before she knew it, she was walking down the campus hill, the city of Arkham spreading out in every direction, shrouded in evening mist. There was definitely a chill in the air, the clammy hand of winter that would not let go. At the corner of the main research building a strange suspicion gripped her, and she turned around, certain she had glimpsed lights from the corner of her eye. Absent-minded as she was, she might've left a lamp on in the library. But as she looked straight at the tall, dark building, her haven of ink and yellowed paper, the gleam was gone.

Daisy turned her back on the Miskatonic University campus, and hurried home. Two sickly pale moons, a sickle and a half-full, hid behind the clouds, refusing to light her way.


	2. Chapter 2

"Coming through! Excuse me, miss! Coming through!" 

The gruff tone accompanied by shovel-like hands helped the conductor make way for a thoroughly peculiar group of travellers, clad head to toe in heavy foreign fabrics and tarnished jewelry. An unpleasant smell of rotten fruit and sharp spices clung to them as they moved sluggishly through the train car. Men or women, it was impossible to tell through the thick cloaks and overcoats, and with their heads entirely covered by hoods.

Trish Scarborough withdrew back into her seat and shivered in her thin coat. She disliked trains, and this one was in shabby condition, thoroughly permeated by damp. The odious smell of fish coming from her less than charming fellow travellers only reinforced the image of mold and rot. Whoever packed fresh fish for a long train trip? Had she only had the luxury of time, she would've taken a motor car to Arkham instead. It had been her employers who had insisted on immediate departure.

When they had first approached her, she had naturally assumed them to be from the Bureau of Investigation, or perhaps some other organization working for the government under the jurisdiction of president Coolidge. They had had the aura of easy authority about them, and as she had only moments earlier received a perfect score at her gymnastics meet, she had been an easy target for flattering. Her country needed her, they had said. Her talents were needed.

She had never asked for what. It was too late now. She was climbing towards the inner circle of the organization, and that meant she had to keep her questions to herself.

Trish spied an opening in the stream of people moving out of the train, and grabbed her solitary suitcase, making her way out of the stifling train car. Arkham did not grace her with the fresh spring wind she had been hoping for; it was a chilly day, and people's backs were hunched, their heads bowed, as if pushed low by the same pressure that made the clouds hang heavy and thick above.

"The police station, please," she told the mute taxi driver, whose thin hands were pale to the point of translucence on the wheel. Might as well get the meeting with the local law enforcement over with. She had places to be, once the formalities of her assignment were taken care of.

The station was poorly lit, and as she stepped in, head held as high as her strong, trained back could keep it, she had to blink rapidly. The air was close, as if someone had recently doused a fire, although there was no sign of such a thing. The officer behind the desk did not look up, not even when she cleared her throat.

"I'd like to see chief deputy Warren, please," she said, with a bit of a snap. She was not used to being ignored. Another member of the force shuffled about in the back of the office, but he didn't seem to have a minute for her, either.

She was given little choice but to wait. As she tapped her gloved fingers sharply against the desk, wishing more and more fervently with each passing moment that she had a cigarette, her gaze slipped to the cells at the corner of the building. The door leading to the hallway had been left open, and she could see straight in. Such shoddy disregard for regulations made her jaw tighten. All cells looked occupied, mostly by drunkards or vagrants. One such sorry prisoner writhed soundlessly on the floor, as if tossed and turned by a violent dream. As Trish tilted her head to see better, she realized the man was in fact _scratching_ , his entire frame tense as a spring, scratching and scratching at everything from his cheeks to his stomach--

"Miss? Can I help you?"

Trish turned around so fast she almost suffered whiplash. A new police officer had appeared behind the desk, next to the man still thoroughly immersed in his task, whatever it was. The way he leaned towards Trish accentuated his broad shoulders, his coat hanging open, as if he had just stepped in from the cold. His brown hair was neatly cut, and his face had a touch of Valentino to it, a wild shimmer about the dark eyes, steadied by a strong jawline.

"Yes," she said, gathering herself. "Agent Scarborough, to see chief deputy Warren, please."

The flash of her credentials drew a whistle out of the officer. He didn't smile, however, straightening his back and letting respect enter into his demeanor. "Bureau of I., well I never. I'm sorry, agent Scarborough. The chief's downtown dealing with the press. It's a bit of a crazy situation down there, what with the state of the bodies."

She frowned. The yearning for a cigarette grew stronger, tightened the strings of her nerves. "What state is that? I was informed of a violent murder spree, nothing more extraordinary than that, officer..."

"Muldoon, miss. Tommy Muldoon." He nodded a bow, hand touching the visor of an invisible hat. He had an accent, she thought, a bend to his words that only appeared when he uttered a phrase so familiar he didn't think about it. He wasn't a local.

"Officer Muldoon. Do share the grisly details, please." She gave in, granting him a brief smile. "And a cigarette, if you'd be so kind."

He answered her smile and showed her in, and lit her a cigarette before sitting down opposite her, on the other side of the desk. Trish crossed her legs and watched the light of his match flicker about the room. She couldn't decide how the station was lit; the shadows seemed to fall wherever they pleased.

"I'm not in the habit of giving credence to wild theories, agent Scarborough," Muldoon said through the smoke, crossing his ankles as if mirroring her gesture, "but we've got five bodies in the morgue that are chewed right on through, and I'm starting to think the good townspeople ought to be concerned."

"Chewed? By dogs, I suspect?"

Muldoon shook his head. "Most were discovered indoors. The deaths occured moments after the victims were last seen by loved ones. We're not talking about decayed bodies found in the woods, here. No, someone did this. Someone fast and clever enough to send us running in circles."

Trish was starting to get the picture. Muldoon had landed a career case, and didn't mind letting the federal agent know exactly how much of a hero he intended to play. Good. She could rely on him for all the information she needed while she was in Arkham, as long as she kept feeding his ego. Not that his aspirations were entirely unfounded. He seemed a bright young thing, eager to prove himself. The strong jawline never hurt a career, either.

"Curious," she said, keeping her comments sparse. She would have to look into these murders on her own time before she gave him anything more.

Muldoon seemed disappointed in her lack of reaction, but recovered quickly. "In any case, while our sheriff's department's chasing after the mysterious masticator, the spring festival's also around the corner. There are only so many of us here, so the chief's going to be really stingy about commiting any officers to your investigation. Just thought I'd give you fair warning."

"That's quite all right," she assured him. "All I really need from the department right now is access to your records."

"Talk about a broad sweep," Muldoon drawled, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "All the criminal records? Arkham's files reach back to the witch-burning days. Of course, you'd probably have to dig through the library to find those."

Of course. A piece slid into place in Trish's mind, and sent the wheels turning. The local organizations would also have their records there. Especially those with their roots deep in the New England soil. Perhaps in the peculiar nature of the murders lay an opportunity for her own research. She had always known it would have to be conducted in absolute secrecy. Her employers had been working in the intelligence trade far longer than she had been alive. Strong roots, buried deep.

"We'll keep to the more recent cases, I think," she told young officer Muldoon, and found it easy to smile back.

He offered to drive her to the modest boarding house she was staying in so she could get settled, and went back to his career case, leaving her to sneak silently into the library once he was out of sight. With the librarian's enthusiastic help, she gathered quite a collection of material, and withdrew into her room with her papers and record files. Scarcely half had anything to do with her assignment, and it was that half that held her in its grip until dusk had long since fallen over Arkham.

Why, if she was to help the local law enforcement find a serial killer, had she not been informed that her employers had a branch office in the city, dressed up as a genteel country club? The public records confirmed it beyond shadow of a doubt: the ground the club stood on had been in familiar hands for decades, and the club made use of the same law firms she herself had been directed to. There could be no other explanation. Her employers, for all their lofty ideals, had been misdirecting her.

Yet she would not have glanced twice in the club's direction if doubt hadn't already infiltrated her mind. It gnawed at her like a worm, and left gaping holes in once familiar patterns that begged to be filled. What was the true reason she had been sent to Arkham? Sending her in blind to investigate a spree of peculiar animal attacks was a waste of her talents. Was she to be a distraction to another operation, a patsy -- or perhaps her quick advancement had reached a point where it would be more convenient for her to end up a victim herself, found gnawed and mangled by baffled officer Muldoon?

Trish looked up from her work with a thoroughly uncharacteristic gasp, feeling someone's eyes on her. A black cat was staring at her through the small window. The creature sat on the sloping roof of the boarding house, as comfortably as if on a fine pillow. Her heart pounded. A chill after another made its way through her. Silly Trish, she told herself; it's only a cat. Her secrets might have been deadly but they were safe.

After a moment of mutual gazing, yellow eyes meeting gray, Trish decided the cat was expecting to be let in. She opened the window and called, "here, puss", beckoning with her hand. The cat licked its teeth with a long, thick, gray tongue, unblinking. Something twisted its familiar feline features, and the abnormal tongue was closed behind a terribly knowing grin. Before Trish could think of closing the window to keep it outside, the cat withdrew into the night, becoming nothing more than a shadow among many.


	3. Chapter 3

_Daisy Walker's Diary, 9th of April, 1926--_

On p. 216 (own estimation) of volume III of T. R. o. G. A possible connection to Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead? Have written down another sidenote that seems to be an incantation of some sort. Will look into it further tomorrow. The sense of detail is stupendous. The resources this author must have at his perusal! Suffering a touch of the green-eyed monster.

Nitocris knocked over the vase again. V. annoyed. Denied him the traditional evening hunt for the piece of wrapping paper tied w. string.

Clear day, no rain. That foreign theater group have settled into their temporary lodgings in the uni. drama club's rooms. V. peculiar group. Secretive. Play outrageous pipe music until all hours. Echoes all over campus.

Haven't seen M. at all today. She keeps herself frightfully busy, poor thing.

Was asked about the minutes of the local land owners' council meetings. V. gratified to find out I haven't kept them alphabetized & dust-free all these years for nothing. Same customer (young lady, a private investigator judging by her demeanor, straight out of a Christie if her protagonists skewed that attractive) wanted directions to the Biology section, and loaned three volumes on local wildlife before asking to be let in to peruse the Occult collection. So exciting. Almost dropped the keys! She declined my offer of further help. Wouldn't have been surprised in the slightest had she told me her business was classified. (She did not.)

Mark me, it'll all turn out to be about that hush-hush Silver Twilight Lodge and their exclusive hunting parties in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

It should not have been possible. And yet, as Mandy Thompson subjected the compass in her hand to another rigorous scientific test, namely, tapped it with her nails, its reading didn't change. The needle pointed straight towards S. She glanced at the other compass on the table; it, too, inexplicably pointed south.

"Right," she huffed to herself and stomped into her tiny bathroom. She fed her annoyance. It was much better to be indignant at misbehaving natural laws than horrified at the implications.

The water swirled in the sink, in the exactly wrong direction.

"Right!" Mandy repeated, but only managed to sound panicked. She shook her head chastisingly at the water, then turned it off and fled to her work chair, sinking into it and covering her mouth with one hand. She didn't know whether to start laughing in hysterics or wailing in frustration, and neither was the least bit useful.

Her gaze fell upon the newspaper, left on the table after her hasty breakfast. Distraction, that was what she needed, to keep her mind from unravelling around the impossibilities. The word "gruesome" caught her interest, and she brushed off the egg shells and toast crumbs and reached the article in question. Instead of a final step down the slope of a breakdown, she found a new focus within herself, and her resolve hardened into cold determination.

Within moments, she had caught her coat in her hand and was stumbling down the narrow steps into the street. So much for distractions.

Daisy looked up from her card catalogue, but showed no sign of surprise at her sudden appearance. Students and researchers must have made a habit of barging into her hallowed halls of knowledge. If anything, she seemed distracted, her gaze fixed far away before it found a new target in Mandy.

"Good morning," she said, and that was where Mandy interrupted her.

"I must speak with you. Have you seen this?" The newspaper flew into a pile of history volumes waiting to be shelved. "Pay no heed to the 'Urban Cannibal", that's absurd, tabloid nonsense at its worst. But the details, Daisy!"

Daisy followed her jabbing finger to the article, and gave it a quick, dutiful read. "Well, cannibalism would hardly have been my first suggestion, I quite agree. Four people mauled by animals, it seems." She looked up at Mandy, and her voice grew soft and concerned. "What's the matter, Mandy dear? You look a fright. Do sit, please."

She pointed out a chair, and Mandy sank down, suddenly aware of the state of her flyaway hair and hastily pulled on clothes. Such moments of embarrassment tended to be mercifully fleeting, as her priorities reset themselves.

"It's only straight from my research, all of it!" She heaved a long sigh. "First the astronomical occurences, and now the magnetic fields are all askew -- and this! 'Bored into the very minds of the unfortunate victims,' that's a direct quote from the field journal of professor McKelley! Do you realize what that means? I knew this would happen. I could have prevented this! I should have pressed harder, made them listen!"

Daisy glanced at the article, and made a mild 'tsk' at the imagery. "I wouldn't be so quick to take this on yourself," she said, quietly. "A man with a hole in his skull points to a number of possible accidents--"

"Not just in the skull. And they speak of 'gruesome murders', not accidents! I would bet anything that these people were eaten from the _inside_! Oh, Daisy... I know how it sounds."

Mandy's shoulders slumped. Every inch of her yearned for understanding, for agreement. She had always put all her eggs in the intelligence basket, so to speak, and if her mind had betrayed her now, she would be left with nothing.

Daisy's frown was contemplative. "If you say there's a pattern, I believe you. But murder's far from an obscure reference in a field journal, or an astronomical occurence. You're saying these four people died--"

"It's a precursor," Mandy interrupted her again, her heart pounding with fragile hope. Daisy had certainly never mocked her theories, but Mandy had never dared to believe her practical mind would accept such outlandish ideas. "The portends are clear. Everything that has occured in Arkham up to this point -- you remember the slugs last week? -- has been the natural world reacting to the presence of something... foreign, alien to its rules. It has brushed close to our dimension before, all of this, it has _happened before_..."

Daisy cocked her head, and rested her hands on her hips, as if she was readying herself for a cobweb-covered, uncatalogued section of obscure Chinese manuscripts. "A 'presence' didn't kill those people."

Mandy threw her hands up. "Something did. See, I'm following the breadcrumb trail of my research, reacting to things that have already occurred. But this is only the beginning, and I can't simply sit idle. It won't stop here."

"Sounds like you could use a few more points of reference to get ahead of the curve." 

Daisy's eyes widened as something seemed to occur to her, and she stepped closer. Mandy could feel her heartbeat quickening along with her own, dread and excitement flowing between them like shared inspiration. It was a sickening feeling, and yet it gave her hope. If Daisy, sensible Daisy believed, she couldn't possibly be delusional.

"I think I know who we could ask," Daisy said, and made it an ominous promise.


	5. Chapter 5

_An article in_ Arkham Advertiser _, 10th of April, 1926_

**The City Prepares for Spring Carnival**

The Northside streets will be closed this afternoon for a most exotic public performance by a distinguished foreign group of actors and musicians. Darke's Carnival has arrived in the city from the Mysterious East just in time for the annual spring festival. According to the troupe leader, who wishes to keep his identity a stage secret, the light drizzle of rain will not dampen the spirits of his fellow performance artists.

"Arkham is where a great many true aficionados of the arts gather," he praises the city. "We are humbled by the warm welcome we have received from the locals, and along with them, are looking forward to a true spectacle."


	6. Chapter 6

The docks of Arkham seemed ever shrouded in thick river mist, and that mist hid a thousand quiet sins. For all the hoodlums and bums loitering about, Daisy's foremost worry was for what she couldn't see. Dusk had crept over the old rotten wood, and turned the waters black, and her well-read mind easily completed the picture for her. Under ordinary circumstances she would have never stepped a foot to such a place. But if Mandy's predictions were even approximates of the truth, Arkham faced a killer far more incomprehensible than anything the police could apprehend on their own. Besides, Daisy had always had a hunger for the mysterious.

A squalid occupant of a rotten bench near the shore raised a bottle of liquor at her. The mangy dog by his side looked far too well-fed for its surroundings. It gave its master a loving glance as the man set the bottle to his lips and drank deep.

"It's a bad tide tonight, ladies," he called out, with the absolute certainty of a drunkard. "An' it's always a bad tide that rolls in from the Isle. Nasty things about, pale things. I would'na be caught dead on them waves, not tonight."

Agent Scarborough looked up from the boat she had been inspecting with a critical eye. "Thank you for the warning," she said in a dry manner.

Daisy had known the young woman for a day, and already she knew Scarborough didn't respond well to suggestions that she'd overlooked something. Meticulosity was a trait they shared, but it didn't lead to quick friendships. For now, the three of them were joined by curiosity; she doubted Scarborough would be here if she wasn't truly at a loss to explain the state of those bodies.

The loiterer shrugged and downed another mouthful. "Old Pete's gon' be right here waitin' on your return. Me an' Duke here, we've got the sense to stay put when the lights're on the waters."

Mandy gave her an inquisitive look, but Daisy waved it away, not willing to feed her already inflamed imagination. The poor girl looked like she hadn't slept in a week.

Daisy thought of the pile of leatherbound volumes waiting for her at home, the leeches to her own sleeping hours. She immediately found comfort, even as the boat slid out of the harbour onto the still waters as dark as the abyss. Four out of ten she had read now, and the strange incantations and verses had started to ring true to her, like a memory or a dream set to prose. What would she do when she ran out of volumes?

Agent Scarborough rowed, her slight frame apparently hiding impressive strength. She had kept very close and quiet ever since their initial meeting, when she had been full of questions. She and Mandy had been unstoppable in their speculation -- Daisy's hunch had proved correct, and Scarborough did work for the law enforcement, but if she was a private investigator she kept her affairs private indeed. Mandy had seemed immediately impressed by her, and flushed pink with success upon finding a respectable lady like her willing to listen to her theories.

Not that Daisy herself wasn't respectable. But Scarborough's very stature spoke of authority. People followed such quiet determination. When she had indulged them with the information of the last two bodies, found dragged ashore near the docks, the idea of investigating the small island not far from the mainland for clues of the source of their strange wounds had seemed nothing but natural. Daisy looked at the poised woman, rowing tirelessly through the thick mist. She wondered now whether Scarborough was simply glad of the company. She had glimpsed the gun hidden under her neat jacket, but the woman seemed small and lonely, out on the unknown water like this. In any case, she was new in town.

Upon reaching the banks of Themystos Isle, Mandy and Scarborough found a half-sunken pier and tied the boat securely before stepping ashore. Daisy let herself be helped onto the muddy bank. Rain was little more than a damp quality to the air, even out here on the river, and it hushed their steps as they moved up the overgrown path. Willow boughs bent over them like the bony fingers of a hundred hands.

"There are lights ahead," Mandy whispered, and Scarborough pushed ahead of her, ducking behind an ancient trunk of a dead tree.

"As I suspected. We're not alone here. Careful. We're here to observe."

The sobriquet of The Unvisited Isle had seemed apt before, given the unwelcoming gloom hanging about the place, but it proved less and less fitting. The ground was freshly trampled, even Daisy could see as much. A great many people had followed the path to the heavy iron gates of the mansion. Of course all residents of Arkham knew of the mansion on the Isle, its opulence long since turned to ruin. Legends abound of the ghostly figures that could be glimpsed in its broken windows. Daisy's feet were cold in her flat-heeled shoes. The chill of the air seemed to seep underneath her coat.

"Stay back," Scarborough hissed, and sneaked ahead, moving silently towards the high iron bars that stood out from among the willows.

Firelight flickered in the swiftly falling night, and it seemed concentrated on the yard of the mansion. Mandy ducked down and covered her head as an enormous moth flew over them, flapping and flitting heavily through the damp air. Daisy could have sworn she heard other animals as well: cries and muffled whimpers, like a pack of anxious dogs. At Scarborough's signal, Daisy and Mandy followed her to peer into the overgrown garden.

Only Mandy's hand pinching her arm kept Daisy from crying out. The mansion itself was not lit, but there were low fires lit in a circle as wide as the yard could accomodate, and among those fires walked uniformly cloaked figures, chanting in incomprehensible gibberish as their feet followed equally arcane patterns on the flattened grass. The garden, left to its own devices for decades if not centuries, had nothing left of its original design but the grotesque stone pillars, carved with mocking faces neither human nor animal. In the middle of the circle, on the ground, writhed three naked men. They whimpered and moaned in intense agony, their spines tensed as far back as they could bend. Their hands clawed at their bodies, nails drawing blood, and it was then that Daisy saw something bubbling underneath their skin. It distorted flesh as it moved, mercilessly pushed at the confines of their bodies as if demanding to be set free.

One of the cloaked figures raised a hand, and the flames fluttered down and took an eerie, sickly green glow. The reduced light was a kind of mercy, for the things finally broke free of their poor hosts, and out of the living bodies poured fat, pale maggots of a kind Daisy had never imagined. Their forms were something entirely too prehistoric, crawled out of a distant savage past of their planet, when it had been a wetter and darker place.

The apparent leader of the macabre ceremonies raised his voice, and Daisy found herself recognizing pieces of the exultant rambling. She had heard that voice, too, somewhere, in a half-forgotten dream. It evoked hazy visions of caves and caverns, deep within the world, where ancient horrors slowly stirred and opened a thousand eyes.

It was only when Scarborough shook her by the shoulder that she stirred from her thoughts.

The agent looked pale in the sparse green light. "Miss Walker! We must go! Now!"

Daisy saw that the ceremony had ended, and several hooded heads were turning this way and that. The leader bared his head, and glanced about with crazed, bulging eyes. They had spied an intruder to their ritual. In the middle of the broken circle, the three mangled bodies lay, still twitching but forgotten. As soon as the maggots had immerged, they had burrowed into the ground, leaving nothing behind but slime and agonising death.

"The children," Daisy found herself saying even as Mandy hoisted her up to her feet, "they are welcoming the birth of the god's children."

They stumbled back towards the path, but the night had crept on, covering all tracks. Daisy looked around, trying to find the correct direction for the pier. The Isle was not large, but it seemed positively infested with cloaked madmen, gibbering in dead languages. She started towards the trees, dragging Mandy with her, only to be cut off by a tall, thin figure in a cloak. He made a grab for Daisy's coat, so she wriggled free of it, losing sight of Mandy and Scarborough in the tumble. She lost her footing, and fell down on the muddy ground, her assailant's bony hands clutching at air. When the fingers closed around her ankle, she could feel an undulation, something moving inside the hand. She kicked, and kicked, and with a ragged scream, broke free and away.

"Daisy!" Mandy appeared out of the gloom like a dishevelled apparition, and she clung to her as they ran down the slippery bank, furious cries of the revellers speeding their steps.

The sound of Scarborough's pistol firing gave them the final clue of their destination. She aimed it above their heads as they scrambled into the boat, and the shot echoed in Daisy's ears. Mandy kicked the boat out to the water, and Daisy found herself rowing, desperately pulling more distance between them and the evil island.

No one was waiting for them at the docks, and they climbed onto the creaking boards, coughing and gagging. Daisy's arms felt on fire, and she shivered without her coat. As soon as she could pull herself onto the pier, she fell down, drawing her arms around her.

"Who were those... those lunatics?" Mandy asked, her voice ragged. "There were dozens of them!"

"Lunatics who knew perfectly well what happened to those four bodies," Scarborough said, leaning her hands on her knees and steadying her breathing.

"Seven now," Daisy added, and bile rose at the memory of the bodies, so violently disposed of their vile parasites.

"You don't think -- They're not trying to _speed along_ the dimensional distortion?" Mandy looked ill, her throat working.

Scarborough turned to her, straightening her back. "I'd suggest you trust your instincts, Miss Thompson. They appear to serve you well."

Mandy pulled a grim smile at that, and might've said something, if a pulsating hand hadn't grabbed Daisy's foot, dangling as it was over the dark water. With a cry she attempted to back away, but the hold was tight and strong. The man had lost his cloak in the water, but the mad gleam in his eyes left no doubt. His skin bubbled as if held close to a pyre, and he opened his slavering mouth like a beast before prey. Before he could clamp his teeth around Daisy's leg, a flurry of movement flew past her, and flashed its own white teeth at the man, sending him back into the cold embrace of the river. More cloaked men now stumbled onto the pier, but Scarborough's pistol was out in a flash, and another, booming noise added to its piercing sound.

"Back! You back away, you devils!" a familiar voice rasped between the shots, and Daisy scampered onto her feet to look at the drifter from the docks, now holding a shotgun and a stern expression.

His dog emerged from the water, dropped a filthy battle trophy from its mouth, shook its fur and barked in reassurance. Although she was no dog person, Daisy felt like reaching out a hand to pet it; the dog had leapt to her defence, perhaps saving her life.

They drew away from the water, panting and spooked, and the drifter hauled his shotgun over one shoulder, his other hand patting the head of the dog. "No place that's safe from that lot," he grumbled.

"You know of them?" Scarborough demanded, likewise putting away her weapon once she saw the danger had passed once again. "Who are they?"

He shrugged. The dog panted, and let out an agreeable whine. "Trouble. Skulking about the city with their worms and their knives. We want nothin' to do with that lot, do we, Duke? No, we'd rather be outta th' way when they start their song and dance."

Mandy pushed back her wet hair. She couldn't have seen much through the fogged and muddied lenses of her glasses. "Oh, I'm sure, sir, but no one in Arkham will have that choice if they're not stopped! I-- What's wrong with your dog?"

Daisy had already spied the faint pulse travelling through the mangy creature, like a wave down its pelt, and backed further away.

Concern softened the drifter's features and made the man look immensely more likable. "Dukie? What is it, boy?"

"It bit one of those madmen from the Isle," Scarborough said, realization widening her eyes. "It must've swallowed one of the worms."

Mandy looked from her to the dog. "You mean... it's infected with those... things? Sweet heavens, they're _all_ infected?"

"If it is," Scarborough stated, steel in her tone, "we can't allow that thing to grow and multiply." She raised her pistol again, calmly pointing it towards the animal, which was now starting to gag and shiver, its eyes pleading at its master for help. 

"No! No, you put that away, lady!" The drifter raised his hand towards her. It might as well have been the shotgun, judging by his glare.

"I'm sorry," Daisy said, helplessly. The thought of someone threatening to shoot her Nitocris, for any reason, was unbearable. But the terrible death of the three men on the island... It couldn't be allowed, either.

The man fell down more than kneeled, his shotgun clattering to the planks of the dock unheeded as he picked up the dog like his own child. It whined and licked at his hands even as its skull bulged with the slithering of a vile parasite. 

"You better go on now," he said, low enough to be almost a raspy growl. "Get away from the water. Get away."

_But there is no getting away, not from these horrors_ , Daisy thought as the three of them fled, leaving the docks behind. _They come from underground, and they return underground, and they are under our feet wherever we go._

When she heard the thundering sound of the shotgun once more, she squeezed her eyes closed and let Mandy guide her staggering steps.


	7. Chapter 7

_A letter to Captain Cecil Thompson, undated_

I hope this letter finds you, and finds you well. 

I'm so sorry about the lack of letters of late. I've been buried alive in academic work, and Arkham never seems to cease offering me more opportunities for study. The professors of Natural Sciences assure the public that the strange big slugs have appeared due to the unusual rainfall, but to me it makes no sense. Where are all the other creatures the wet weather should've brought in? And why do they seem to gather around specific places?

My own research into what I have fancifully called "a dimensional rift" is proceeding in leaps and bounds. By my estimation over five leylines cross in Arkham; the move here was definitely one of the most fruitful decisions of my academic career. If only I could get this paper properly peer-reviewed, not to mention published!

I know Mother and Father despair over my future, but you're simply going to have to hold the line for a while longer.

I miss you, too, but I don't think this is the best time for a visit. Not only is the weather ghastly this time of year, but there's also something making the rounds that I really wouldn't want you to catch. For one, Lillian would kill me.

Give her my love. You know you have mine. 

Your pesky little sister,  
 _Mandy_


	8. Chapter 8

They needed to get out of the streets. Every living creature they encountered in the night-time city seemed to writhe with hidden worms, their eyes shine with devout madness. Trish wished she was in a sensible city, where police officers patrolled the streets and the lights didn't flicker and wane like will-o-the-wisps. Arkham seemed wholly unlawful by night, filled with whispers and phantom footsteps.

"We must go to the police," Miss Walker said. She was shivering in her thin cardigan, having lost her coat, but seemed to possess that core of stout sensibility that never failed.

"Yes, of course," Trish muttered, but couldn't shake the doubt that their story would bring about anything but ridicule, or worse, lethargic dismissal. There were bodies, sure enough, but to the Arkham police department that was evidently nothing new or particularly distressing.

Well. It wasn't the entire truth. There was someone who had shown keen interest in the case from the start, someone who could be their confidante. Trish bit her lip, and fished her cigarette case from her pocket. She was hesitant to get Muldoon mixed up in all this. He hadn't signed up for bizarre occult ceremonies in the woods at night; he just wanted to solve a murder case and build a decent career out of it. Trish looked at Walker, and her researcher friend, trembling with the cold and shock. She should never have involved anyone else, she mused. Hadn't she learned by now to trust her own skills? The entire reason her employers worked in the shadows was that there were some cases that should never see the light of day.

The decision was ripped from her grasp when they reached the station, and officer Muldoon's friendly face was the first they saw.

"Agent Scarborough," he greeted her, and took in the sorry state of the three of them, brows furrowing in worry. "How can I help you?"

"We wish to report a murder," Miss Thompson blurted out. "A terrible murder. Out on the Isle."

Trish sighed, and accepted this twist of fate that had thrown officer Muldoon their way. "I'm afraid your murder spree has gotten even more complicated."

Muldoon glanced about the room. His colleagues were as unperturbed as ever, fixated on their tasks. "I think you better start from the beginning. Why don't we sit down somewhere more comfortable? You look like you could use one of Velma's hot turkey sandwiches."

"Something hot would be very good," Walker agreed.

Muldoon smiled all the way to the corners of his eyes. "Let me get the motor car from the garage. Meet me up front in five minutes, ladies."

Once he was gone, Thompson nudged her friend with her elbow. "Speaking of hot numbers!"

Walker shushed her, even though she hadn't spoken very loudly. "Mandy!"

"What? He looks like he should be in the pictures. I didn't know police officers could have such soulful eyes. You know, I can't recall ever paying attention to an officer's face in Arkham before."

Trish realized that it was true; no other face, or voice, stood out in her otherwise excellent memory. She found herself glancing surreptitiously at the two officers in the station, but they were both either turned away or had their face buried in a file.

"I usually get around on my motorcycle," Muldoon said as they climbed into the car, "but it's a little tight for four."

Trish saw that he was trying desperately to meet her eyes, and hid her laugh into a cloud of cigarette smoke. Next to her, Miss Thompson squirmed in her seat.

In the corner table of Velma's Diner, which never seemed to be closed, they explained to Muldoon all they had uncovered so far, of what Walker quaintly called "the murder mystery". Her eyes had taken to a glassy stare into nothing, while Thompson's were glued to Muldoon, and Trish suspected the hearty librarian might be feverish. She was perfectly eloquent, however, and spoke with detached detail of incidents which made Trish herself feel ill.

"It's clear there's a conspiracy at work," Muldoon said at length, stirring his cup of pitch-black coffee. "Pardon me, but I must ask, Miss Scarborough. How much of this did you know before coming here?"

It was a fair question, but Trish twitched. "I... may have had my suspicions, yes. I had no idea of the scale, obviously."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think either of you do," Thompson put in. She warmed her hands on the coffee cup, having finished her sandwich and potatoes. "The spread of the worms is but one stage. What are larvae? Something about to take another, greater form."

"The god's children," Walker murmured to herself. " _Signa stellarum nigrarum..._ "

Muldoon shuddered, and pushed his cup away. "It doesn't bear thinking about, all this occult business, but if you're set on stopping them, I'm on your side. Protect and serve. Says so on a badge and everything."

"Good," Trish said, with such conviction that Thompson jumped at the sound of her voice. She smiled as sweetly as she could, given how cold and stiff her face felt. "I appreciate it. Now, if you'd kindly see to it Miss Walker and Miss Thompson get home safe? It's getting quite late."

"Are you leaving yourself out of the picture because of how safe you feel, Miss Scarborough?" Muldoon asked quietly, quirking an eyebrow.

"Trish. And I'm armed."

Muldoon gave a slow and sincere smile, and asked no further questions.


	9. Chapter 9

Mandy was used to being up at all hours, and a hot dinner and a bracing cup of coffee had done wonders. She made do with very little sleep these days regardless. Unfortunately, it made her all the more aware that poor Daisy seemed half-asleep, mumbling in Latin to herself, and seemed far away whenever not directly addressed. Even Miss Scarborough -- _Agent_ Scarborough -- was lost in her own thoughts when she left them. Admittedly, she had taken all the new information far better than Mandy ever could have imagined. Her stunning presence was immediately obvious, but she had proven herself to be an analytical thinker and a good listener as well, and Mandy had found herself a little awed.

She asked officer Muldoon to take them straight to Daisy's apartment, as her own was close by and she wanted to see her friend safely in. He drove with a reckless swerve, but the streets were almost empty, this time of the night. The festival hadn't yet breathed new life into the city, apparently, and a good thing, too. Mandy wished she could go around telling people to keep their doors locked and not let anybody in, but they'd only take her for an insane woman. And she was not insane. Others saw the signs she had read. She was not alone. She was not insane.

Muldoon didn't just stop the car, he got out to open the door for them. Mandy could feel heat rising to her cheeks, unaccustomed to such gestures from handsome gents. She pushed Daisy out of the car ahead of her, and was about to thank him, when the ground under them started to shake.

Out of the embrasure of Daisy's apartment building stepped a figure, familiar in his hood and cloak. A curved edge of a knife caught the pale light as he raised it, chanting under his breath. Mandy called out Daisy's name, holding onto the side of the car for support. Muldoon pulled out his gun, but the man had already caught Daisy, holding her in a tight grip, and Muldoon hesitated.

That hesitation gave the man an opportunity to strike, but even as Mandy cried out in horror, she saw the blade did not sink into her friend but into the man's own palm. As the blood dripped onto the ground, it burst open, and the maniac's ecstatic ululation was lost amidst the sounds of crumbling stone. A pale, slimy limb now stretched out from the earth, and what could be taken for deformed likeness of fingers at the end of a sickly gray arm flailed through the air, knocking Muldoon onto his back. The monstrous thing then turned to Mandy, but how much it saw, she couldn't tell, because in the place of a head it had only a pit-like mouth, lined with rows upon rows of teeth. The translucent tentacles hovered around its sea lamprey mouth, which dripped drool or slime onto Mandy, who stood paralyzed by sheer terror.

At first, Mandy thought its summoner had started babbling again, but then she recognized Daisy's voice. Mandy's heart seemed to resume its beating, but the blood it pumped through her was cold. The words were thoroughly incomprehensible to her, yet had an immediate effect on the pale monster. It writhed as if dropped onto a hot pan, its skin drying and crackling. As a demented imitation, she saw the cloaked figure now squirming painfully on the ground. She could barely see her friend, stone-faced and stern, behind the glowing pattern she had seemingly fashioned in the air from fire.

The gun! Mandy lunged for the weapon fallen from Muldoon's hand, and despite never having held one before, aimed it at the writhing and withering worm and braced herself for the kick. The impact of the desperate shot seemed minor, swallowed by the enormous maw now coughing up more stinking slime, but the worm sank into the ground, disappearing into the dark, deep places beneath the earth's crust.

"Are you all right?"

Mandy looked up, and almost pointed the pistol at Daisy. The strange fiery letters were gone, and her friend seemed more or less herself, albeit out of breath.  
"Yes, I'm fine," Mandy assured her, nodding too much, and gave the groaning Muldoon her hand to help him up. "What did you do, Daisy? What on earth was that?"

An uncomfortable turn of phrase, perhaps. Daisy stared down at her hands. "The Red Sign of Shudde M'ell," she mumbled, mostly to herself. "The most malignant of all burrowing creatures... I can't believe it. It _worked_."

"Ungh." Muldoon held his head, and gave Mandy a sad smile. "I'm so sorry, Miss Thompson. I didn't turn out to be quite the protector I boasted to be."

Mandy offered him his gun, glad to be rid of the thing, no matter how effective it had turned out to be. "Oh, pay it no mind. Something tells me you'll get your chance." Her gaze fell on the gibbering madman, still writhing on the ground. Given a chance to observe him more closely, she could make out the movements of the maggots inside him, bulging out his meagre form.

"Quite right," Daisy said in a clipped tone. "It seems you have an arrest to make."

Muldoon took out a pair of handcuffs, and keeping as much distance as he could, apprehended the man and shoved him up to his feet. "That should help appease the boss for a while," he said, but did not appear particularly happy about the prospect.

"Just keep him isolated." Daisy closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, looking for her balance for a moment. Mandy hurried to her side, and she accepted the arm around her shoulder gratefully.

Muldoon packed the still mumbling man into his car, and took his leave, urging them to be careful until they met again. Mandy offered to stay with her friend, but she adamantly refused, probably needing some time to herself. She had always struck Mandy as a happily solitary creature. 

Neither of them looked in the direction of the hole left in the street when they parted their ways, closing their ears to any echoes that travelled far into the forgotten depths of the earth.


	10. Chapter 10

_Daisy Walker's Diary, 12th of April, 1926--_

It's no work of fiction. The notes I've been taking draw from _actual knowledge_ of the arcane and ancient and terrible, and I've been blind, stumbling through it like a fool. I must go back and revisit the previous volumes. These Revelations are finally becoming clear to me. Shudde M'ell and its terrible kindred exist. What else, what else is hiding in the earth? What have we found to be beyond our comprehension and called god?

It's all true. All of it. I have only five volumes left. Will it be enough? Or will the final revelation be that there is nothing to be done, and mankind is but a swarm of incubators to be used and forgotten when the nameless god returns?


	11. Chapter 11

Trish had sent her report, and doubted that it would ever be read.

Twice now she had discovered signs that her room at the boarding house had been searched while she had been away, or what was more chilling, in the scarce hours when she slept. She kept her most private notes on her person at all times. They were becoming the scribblings of a madwoman. Without the deeper truths upon which they drew they were senseless, and what most terrified her, she couldn't commit to paper.

A large conspiracy of influential persons was preparing to sell out the whole of humanity to advance the awakening of an ancient horror. In this mockery of all that was good and sane and orderly in the universe she knew, she had been readily helping them for years.

Her freedom had a bitter taste and was hardly won. Simply declaring herself separated from her employers didn't make it so. Too many spies and conspirators had seen her face and reported it. No action she took in this city would go unnoticed. And yet, none of it would matter if her former employers succeeded in their macabre task.

She had been a competent spy. In short succession, she had twisted her skills to a new purpose, and become familiar with the trade of a killer in the shadows, taking down one member of the conspiracy after another before they could spread their vile influence and infection throughout Arkham. But their reach seemed endless, and her efforts woefully like attempting to treat a symptom rather than the cause. Time was running out. Alone, she didn't stand a chance. Luckily she had other options to pursue.

Trish slipped out of the window, and fled into the night. Gleaming eyes were upon her.

"The woman on the corner," she told Muldoon when she met him, and they started walking immediately, like a couple out on a late evening stroll. She had managed to persuade Muldoon to dress down, so his general appearance didn't scream law enforcement quite so loudly.

He didn't look. "Are you sure? I could have sworn she was blind."

"Her eyes are very pale," she agreed, and shuddered, walking faster.

They took the agreed upon precautions, tracing their steps back twice and approaching Daisy Walker's apartment from the narrow side street, meeting Thompson there. None of them had seen her in days, and they couldn't afford to lose anyone of their little group, especially with the frightening amount of knowledge Walker seemed to possess. Trish had started to appreciate the fact that the Occult section of the library was habitually kept under lock and key.

Thompson knocked on the door. She had to repeat it before Walker appeared, wild-eyed and clutching a sheaf of papers filled with her precise handwriting.

"Oh," she said by way of a greeting, "I was expecting you."

They were let into the small apartment. It still bore evidence of being kept neat and tidy, before scribbled notes had overtaken it. They covered all surfaces in sprawling piles, stuck to the walls and marked nearly every book, of which there were many. The occupant herself looked steady as ever, but her clothes were clearly slept-in.

"Nitocris is hiding," Walker explained, although no one had asked. "He isn't very good with visitors."

"Who cares about the cat!" Thompson's outburst was quickly over. "I'm sorry, Daisy, I just-- Two professors have gone missing this past week, and I fear the worst. Have you had any luck at all with the other tomes in the library? Your contacts in the antiquarian business?"

Walker's hands immediately clutched one another, her white knuckles showing valiantly suppressed frustration. "I've leafed through _De Vermis Mysteriis_ again, but it's a poor translation, and I fear the original is lost. At least, to my skills and contacts. No, if we are to find a spell to undo the damage that has been done, to disrupt the sequence of foretold events... We must find the last volume of _The Revelations of Glaaki_."

"But you have it," Trish said, frowning in confusion. "When we last spoke, you said you had finished reading it. Are you saying..."

"There's an eleventh book," Walker finished, and picked up some of her most expansive notes to show them. "I'm certain of it."

Muldoon whistled. "Good find, Miss Walker. How did you figure that?"

The librarian threw herself enthusiastically into her reply, gesturing broadly. "See, the anonymous narrator refers again and again to spells and rituals which ought to be written down, but which appear nowhere in the _Revelations_. There were too many instances to be dismissed for a writer otherwise so meticulous, so precise." When she spoke of books, her demeanor became somehow brighter, her stance taller. The three others formed a rapt audience as she dashed to another thoroughly bookmarked volume. "I found remarks, here, in the diaries of occultist Johann Von Allmen, that spoke of a lost volume of 'pagan rituals most foul, predictions most harrowing' -- I'm translating of course, you understand -- that was stolen from the library of his colleague Eberlein after his suicide. Violently assisted suicide, I would hazard, given the circumstances. In any case, the eleventh volume has become a lost treasure for the few in the know."

"We _must_ find it," Thompson said. "Even now, this... cult works tirelessly to make true the prophecy -- the strange winged creatures blotting out the stars at night, the disappearings, the slimy holes in the streets, it's all following the pattern."

She had become rather good at pointing them in the right direction, just the previous day effectively sabotaging a bizarre and disturbing theater performance downtown before the hypnotically repeated incantations could invite the audience to join in. It helped to have an ally in the law enforcement, the one police officer who cared enough to try to save his city even if he had to bend the rules to do it, since Trish no longer dared to present herself openly as a federal agent.

"But where to even look? I've exhausted my means. The lost volume is also lost to me." Walker sighed, looking like nothing in her life had ever been harder to admit.

Trish could feel an idea taking shape, almost against her will. "You said this last volume contains... spells and rituals?"

"Yes, it's hinted at that it does."

"In other words, secrets that a cult would do its utmost to keep. Most useful information, especially for people with access and resources beyond compare."

Muldoon snapped his fingers. "Ah! Which means they could have it! They've found the lost book!"

"And have been using it," Thompson mumbled to herself, rubbing at the side of her mouth, a tell of furious thinking. "Well, it would explain how they could accomplish all we have seen in Arkham, these past weeks. But... it's not good news for us, is it?"

Her words cast a darker shadow over their gathering, and for a moment, no one spoke.

"Nevertheless, we need the book to put an end to all this, even if numbers are not on our side," Walker finally said. "They practically have the run of the city, by now. I wouldn't know where to start looking."

Trish's tongue stuck to her mouth. She forced her hands to be still, her voice to stay steady, as she slowly said, "I think I know where."

Walker's eyes were on her immediately, shining with craving for the book that had eluded her.

"The Silver Twilight Lodge," Trish went on. "I've followed the paper trail. It's the perfect hideaway in plain sight, and no bodies have been found in its vicinity."

Muldoon was eyeing her strangely, and she hoped against hope he wasn't a better investigator than she gave him credit. "You may be right. None of the Lodge members have come forth with complaints of strange incidents, either. They're a close lot, as I understand it."

"It warrants a check, surely," Thompson said, with enviable intrepidity. "Into the lion's den, as the saying goes, but if we get our hands on that book..."

"It's worth the risk," Walker finished, nodding. "It's worth everything."

Trish swallowed. In the face of such conviction, she felt a coward. The urge to let go of her secret and tell the others of her past alliances was a brief one, however; it lurched inside her, and then settled again. No, their group was hastily formed as it was, tested by outside danger but too fragile for conflict within. They needed to hold on together if they were to succeed. The fate of the city, of the world, mattered more than her conscience.


	12. Chapter 12

In the end, it had been so simple Daisy couldn't believe the pieces hadn't clicked into place before. The eerie similarities between the events described in the _Revelations of Glaaki_ and those taking place in Arkham now, and the undeniable deviations from the pattern that had made no sense to her; they were all explained by the fact that the cult holding the city in its sway had the last, secret volume in their possession. The prophesies of the _Revelations_ were not followed, they were _used_ , to summon forth something older and hungrier than Glaaki.

It couldn't be borne. Not just for the future of the world and all its occupants; Daisy had never given up on a book in her life, and she didn't intend to. She felt the satisfying fire that blazed within her at the thought of finishing the _Revelations_ , and it gave her courage. She had armed herself well with her trusted sword and shield, the written word. With a new coat, dark as the night, thrown over her shoulders, she was ready.

Scarborough had arrived well in advance, and was keeping an eye on the grand lodge. The building could have been among some of the oldest in Arkham, but kept impeccably well, all three floors and the expansive garden. The windows were lit on every side, the curtains drawn, but no one came in or walked out. 

Daisy tapped at her arm, to let her know she was there. "Mandy and Muldoon?" she asked, in whisper.

"In position. Muldoon will give us a sign before he goes for the front door... There we are."

Daisy saw Muldoon stand up straight and fix his jacket as he stepped forward, just a police officer making some inquiries. Then she and Scarborough were moving, as silently as their feet could carry them, and Mandy joined them once they were past the immaculately trimmed hedge.

"Can you hear music?" she asked them, in rather loud whisper.

It was true; the night breeze carried the plaintive sounds of flutes and low, mournful singing, strangely off-key.

"It comes from the house. I don't know about you, but it chills me." Mandy shuddered, but made to follow Scarborough towards the basement door anyway, bless her stubborn spirit.

Scarborough hesitated, and then yanked her back by the sleeve, somewhat roughly. She said nothing, but reached for a cleverly hidden holster on her inner thigh, and offered Mandy the small handgun she pulled out of it.

Daisy watched the reactions flicker over Mandy's blushing face. "I... no. Thank you, but no. I'm a horrible shot and I don't much care for them. You keep it, in case you lose the first one. Trish."

It was difficult to call the poised agent by her first name. Even Mandy stumbled on it.

"Hurry," Daisy urged them, and they sneaked through the garden, from shadow to shadow.

The door had a heavy lock, but Scarborough made quick work of it, setting it silently on the ground. The air inside smelled musty, and inexplicably, a heavy kind of sweet. It reminded Daisy of strong brandy. She startled when someone stepped in to stand behind her in the doorway; Muldoon mumbled an apology, having finally joined them after providing enough of a distraction. He seemed boyishly excited as they descended the stone steps into the very lair of the enemy.

The sweet smell grew stronger, almost pungent. The music seemed closer now, yet muffled by the thick stone; Daisy thought she also heard laughter and raised voices, coming from somewhere in the house. The slivers of illumination provided by the flashlights held by Muldoon and Scarborough revealed damp stone walls, floors sticky with some unknown translucent substance and closed doors. The basement certainly matched the rest of the house in size, if not opulence.

A door creaked open, somewhere ahead. Their flashlights were switched off in a frantic second, but whoever had entered the hallway had brought their own light source. The long shadows thrown on the wall reached Scarborough, who had been in the lead. Daisy caught a glimpse of a tall man in a bathrobe before flattening herself against the wall. A bathrobe, or a long cloak.

Determined footsteps started to approach, and then more joined them, the murmur of perhaps half a dozen voices halting Daisy's breath. Their small group scrambled back the way they came, helpless in the knowledge that in the closed space, even a light step, a soft intake of breath, could be heard. Daisy tried one of the doors, but only managed to make a dull noise as it refused to budge.

"This way!" Muldoon whispered, having had more luck on the opposite side of the hallway. The room smelled foul, the sweet smell turned spoiled and rotten, but they hurried inside and drew the door closed.

For a tense while, they were trapped in the darkness, with only their shallow breaths, the malodorous air, and the faint scrapes of a heel against sticky stone. Daisy felt Mandy's hand on her side, seeking her blindly, and grasped it. They didn't dare to speak.

Something groaned in the darkness.

Daisy immediately took a step away from the its direction, and bit back a scream when her foot sank into something soft and wet. Scarborough's flashlight was on in the next second, and in its light the macabre reality of the room they were in was suddenly painted clear. The walls were lined with silently squirming worms, their grotesquely big, fat bodies well-fed, their lamprey-like teeth red with rended flesh. The floor was covered in not only slime but blood, and through it Daisy could make out the symbols carved on the stone, as well as the circle made of hundreds of eyes. In the middle of the circle lay what was left of a human being, after providing sustenance for the vile, slithering monstrosities. His blood gleamed fresh. His heart was pierced with a dagger.

Daisy gagged in the onslaught of terrible sights, trying in vain to summon forth the words of an incantation that could keep them safe.

"Lord have mercy!" Mandy choked on the words that had stumbled out of her non-religious mouth.

"Back to the hallway," Scarborough somehow found the strength to call.

"I'm afraid not," Muldoon stated, and pointed his gun at her head. Upon seeing their stunned astonishment, he grinned, flashing his perfect white teeth. "Your enlightenment is just beginning, ladies."

Scarborough dropped the flashlight, and Mandy lunged for it as they sank back into darkness. When she'd managed to raise it again, Daisy saw that Scarborough had grabbed her pistol as well, her jaw tight as she stared down the young policeman.

"You. You were sent to spy on me," she said, very quietly, frost forming around the edges of her words.

"If you like, sweetheart. You were always a worthy host. Your bosses wanted to keep it that way. Or my bosses, as it turns out." He kicked the door open, casually, to reveal hooded and cloaked figures standing outside holding lanterns, waiting for the sign. Their leader, a tall, thin man with silver hair, stepped forward.

Scarborough's arm was still steady, although her lips trembled in disgust. "Carl Stanford, leader of the lodge. I recognized you on the Isle."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquiantance, Agent Scarborough," the man said. Something slithered across his forehead, underneath his wrinkled skin. "I've heard so much about you. You've built quite a reputation in our distinguished organization. What a fine brood you will provide for Eihort!"

"They all will provide," Muldoon said, easily.

"You're one of _them_? How could you?" Mandy cried out, having finally found her voice. Her face was distorted with betrayal and shock.

Muldoon blew her a kiss. "You will understand soon enough, girlie. After the ritual, the glory of Eihort will be a part of you, always."

Stanford opened his cloak, and the naked chest underneath split open with a wet stretching sound. A hundred hungry worms exploded out of his body as his ecstatic laugh echoed from the walls. Scarborough's gun went off, finally wiping the handsome smile off Muldoon's face. Daisy felt slimy teeth at her ankles, and stumbled down onto the floor, kicking and screaming as the worms closed in.

After that her senses mercifully abandoned her, and she remembered no more.


	13. Chapter 13

Mandy's consciousness returned in a slow trickle. She rediscovered her limbs by their aches, and her eyes adjusted to the low light around her, starting to make out shapes. She was lying on her side, leg bent to an awkward angle, her skirt riding up her thigh and her face against the cold stone floor.

The first movement she detected was Agent Scarborough turning to look at her, spine straight even when she sat on the floor. Fury rose within Mandy, as the memory of betrayal came back in a slam, and she sat up. Her head started to pound, but she paid it no mind. Looking around, it seemed they were in a study, well furnished with antiques and dark wood. Dozens of insects lay pinned on their pillows under dusty glass. Upon recognizing the strange lilting music that played somewhere in the house, she knew they hadn't been taken far.

She had never seen Scarborough lost for words before. "You're awake," the agent finally said, softly.

"Where's Daisy?" Mandy demanded, not in any mood for asking.

Scarborough gestured, and Mandy turned around to see Daisy lying not far from her, still out cold. Her hair covered her face, so Mandy brushed it back, wincing at the dark bruise forming on her poor friend's cheek. Judging by the aching and pounding of her own body, they had been handled viciously.

And yet they were alive.

"Why didn't they kill us?"

Scarborough found her feet. She, too, looked a little worse for wear, but she went to inspect the large window like she expected to hurl herself out of it. "We're to be offered to their god as sacrifice, would be my guess," she said with muted disgust.

Mandy's temper flared once more. "Guess? Don't you _know_?" She followed the agent, pointing a stern finger at her chest like she was a first year student who hadn't turned in their work. "I heard what Muldoon said. You were one of them, too!"

"Not anymore!" Scarborough flushed with irritation, and bit her thin lip. "Look," she went on, collecting her faculties again. "Miss Thompson. Mandy. Please believe me, I didn't know--"

"Oh, not everything, obviously," Mandy said with a huff. "But you _lied_ to us. I thought -- We were supposed to be in this together."

Scarborough cast her gaze floorwards and nodded. "I... didn't see Muldoon coming. A rookie mistake. I want to kick myself for that."

"I could do the honors," Mandy offered, but found her anger had evaporated, and left behind a certain sad understanding. "He is dead, isn't he?"

"Yes. I made sure of that."

"That's something, at least," came a slurring, mumbled voice, and both of them turned to Daisy, who had stirred awake, but could barely keep her eyes open. Her poor head had taken a beating. She coughed, and reached a trembling hand into the pocket of her cardigan. "Mandy, darling, could you...? Thank you."

Mandy helped her fish out a stack of notes, peppered with strange symbols. Daisy pushed herself up with trembling arms, enough to see the floor, and traced an elaborate pattern into it. Her lips moved silently, and although her eyes were half-closed, there was a gleam of concentration to them. The air around her shimmered and blurred, as if in a heat-haze, and for a second Mandy swore she could make out the symbols her friend had drawn on the floor, standing out in shining lines.

Daisy stood up, and dusted off her dress and cardigan. The only thing that seemed amiss with her was her hair, which she hurriedly pushed behind her ear. "We still need the book," she told them.

Mandy tried not to let it show how disquieting she found it that her sensible librarian friend had apparently settled quite comfortably into her new skills as a wielder of ancient, thoroughly unscientific power. According to her own occult studies, there had to be a price for such things.

"We need to get out of this room, first," Scarborough pointed out. "And soon. Judging by their singing, they're working up to the sacrifice part of this night's... festivities."

"The window?" Mandy suggested.

"I might be able to get it open, but we're on the third floor."

Daisy marched over to the long curtains, and tugged at them. "Have you ever read a thriller that involved a prison break?"

"I can't say I have," Scarborough -- no, Trish -- said, joining her by the window. "But I admit I have a soft spot for tales of forbidden love. Many of them involve fleeing from a tyrannical parental figure."

The three of them shared a smile, on common ground again, and got to work.

Mandy's muscles screamed their protest at the idea of climbing out of a window and down a curtain-rope. She breathed fast, not daring to look down. Scarborough had gone first, quick and nimble as a squirrel, and checked that the way was clear. She pulled Mandy in by a steely hold on her wrists, and Mandy in turn offered a steadying hand to Daisy. Their destination was another lavishly furnished room, a dining-room by the look of it, lit only by a low burning fire in the fireplace. The objects in glass boxes were not insects this time, but armor and weapons, their origin a wide expanse of time and location. Mandy looked closer at an array of evil daggers, their hilts adorned with slithery, vile shapes and dark stones. Several were missing.

"Which way do you think is the library?" Daisy whispered.

"It must be on this floor," Scarborough assured her. "I saw the bookshelves through the window, when I was observing the place. Quickly now, before they finish with that awful chanting."

Mandy's gaze fell on a sword hanging over the fireplace, the flames reflecting from the red gem inbedded in the hilt. She hesitated, and before following the other two, fetched it from the wall. Carefully, she ran her fingers down the blade: it was long and fire-warmed, and still sharp. The weight of it was reassuring, even in her aching hand, and she thought she felt something else as well, a stirring of some exhilarating power.

"Much better than a handgun," she muttered to herself, satisfied, and hurried after Daisy and Trish with a firm grip on her weapon.


	14. Chapter 14

Trish jumped at every whisper of sound, unable to relinquish her hold on her gun. The cult seemed to occupy the very walls of the house, their chanting and exalted cries echoing through the wide hallways. She was better trained than to show her fear to her companions, but it took considerable effort. Her hands sweated inside her gloves. She drew comfort from Daisy's steady presence.

Luck was with them, and the library didn't prove difficult to locate. It was an incomprehensibly full room, stuffed floor to ceiling with books, scrolls and manuscripts. What was more, between the volumes there were alien objects; statues and ornaments Trish couldn't place, bleached skulls that weren't quite human, repulsive and unnamable objects floating in greenish fluid in glass jars.

"Right," Daisy said, looking around. "I see they've numbered the shelves, so there should be a catalog somewhere..."

She set to her task, going through the desks with calm professionalism. Trish was about to hurry her along, when a new incentive pricked her ears: footsteps from the hallway, fast approaching. She gestured to Mandy, who took position by the door. With the sword in her hand, she looked like a loyal guardian straight from the Dark Age, if such kind had button-down blouses that had become untucked from their skirts, and eye glasses that sat tilted on the nose.

"Call the--" Trish didn't allow the robed figure who had pushed open the door to finish his sentence, knocking him down with a well-aimed elbow strike that crunched satisfyingly against to the bone. With the next one, she wasn't as prepared, and her kick missed its target.

Mandy made true her promise, and did the kicking for her, sending the man reeling just long enough for Trish to knock him out with an old-fashioned punch. The third cultist, a tall woman, drew back, face twisted with loathing, and made to escape. Trish jumped over the other two to clap her hand tightly over the cultist's mouth, attempting to hold her in place with her slender frame. Mandy came to her help, pushing the two of them bodily into the library, while the woman struggled and kicked and scraped in their grasp.

"Close the door!" Daisy hissed, without looking up from the thick book in her hands. She was running her finger down a page.

"Just find the book!" Trish couldn't have spoken above a whisper, since the cultist's flailing hand had found her throat, and was pressing into it with frightening strength. Mandy moved behind her, inexplicably leaving their captive thrashing about without her hold on her. Then she reached from behind Trish to place the blade of her longsword under the cultist's chin, and Trish understood. She fell back, smoothly somersaulting away as soon as the hold on her throat eased for a moment.

Mandy didn't hesitate. When there was nothing between her sword and the cultist, she drew back and brought the blade down. It didn't quite sever the head from the shoulders, but it cut deep enough to make the cultist's scream a silent one. Her blood bubbled with her attempted breaths, and she fell down, futilely trying to quell the flow of blood with her hands as the maggots burst from her neck, fleeing her dying body. Mandy turned to stare at Trish, like she expected her to say something. Perhaps she wanted to be reprimanded, reminded that taking a life was a terrible thing.

Trish had nothing to say to her. True, she had killed before and knew these pangs of doubt, but there was no sympathy in her heart for the servants of a twisted god who only saw humanity as a means to bring their god's children violently and repulsively into the world. 

"Would you hold the ladder, please," Daisy called, speaking as low as she could and still be heard above the death rattle of the cultist. She had climbed up a precariously ancient ladder in order to reach the top shelf.

They hurried to her aid, and Daisy pulled out a book, looking at it with almost religious reverence.

It seemed a disappointingly ordinary book, albeit Trish couldn't read the strange writing on the back. Leather covers, rather thick, not adorned or marked in any way.

"This is it?" Mandy voiced both of their puzzlement.

Daisy eyed her sharply. "Well, you're welcome to take a gander at the rest of the library if you're unconvinced." Mandy only had to tilt her head, and she relented. "It is a _lost_ volume, my dear. Secret literary epilogues tend to be unassuming."

Trish heard the scrape of a foot, and for a fleeting second, she and a cloaked and hooded cultist regarded each other through the open doorway, before he fled down the hallway, calling loudly for help.

"That's our cue to leave," Mandy said, as Daisy hid the priceless book under her cardigan.

"There's an adjacent room!" Trish pointed at the narrow door, and they ran through it -- straight into a sitting room occupied by a dozen men and women, out of robes or hoods but showing every bit of ease in their surroundings.

Trish lifted her gun, but instead of halting, the occupants of the room reacted with utter disregard for their lives, throwing themselves at her with fervent madness. She shot one in the shoulder, but it slowed down none of the others, and she had to dodge down in an attempt to evade their tearing hands. Mandy had stayed to guard Daisy, but lacking a target that would stay put, she was proving rather ineffective with the sword, cutting air this way and that in clumsy attacks.

A frightening shiver travelled through the air, and it was as if all shadows were suddenly deepened, their depths spewing forth additional shapes that danced on the walls and ceiling. Trish managed a glance at Daisy, and saw her chanting under her breath, both hands lifted. The shadows twisted around her, until the natural laws of the room seemed hers to command. Mandy's blade struck true when she next raised it.

In the end, they managed to bring down their opponents and feels safe for a moment more, but Trish felt exhaustion nipping at her heels. She tried to think of a place on her body that wasn't bruised. Mandy was breathing hard as well. She was a terrifying sight, in her blood-splattered blouse, holding a dripping blade, although her glasses were still crooked. Outside the room, the chanting had ended, and the sounds were now of alarm and anger.

"Out of the window again," Daisy ordered, her fingers now bending and unbending, as if trying to grasp invisible lines in the air. Her hair was lank with sweat, and she looked a different shade of frightening with her bulging eyes and pallid skin, but she still stood tall.

"We can't outrun them all!" Mandy's voice was ragged with exhaustion.

Daisy appeared to have caught some of the threads, like a spider in her web, and gave a wan smile. "I can buy us some time. Go!"

Trish caught Mandy's arm, and they helped each other clumsily through the window, scampering out onto the lawn and running as soon as their feet found the ground. When Trish glanced back to check if Daisy was following, she found a thick fog had covered the Silver Twilight Lodge. It was as if they had stepped out of a dream that could no longer be grasped.

"Daisy!" Mandy called, panic in her voice.

Trish did not leave any room to think; she pushed into the fog. It did not take her long to find Daisy, coughing on the ground, having apparently fallen badly and ended up winded.

"Well done," Trish mumbled, helping the librarian up and supporting her until they reached Mandy. She saw Daisy's hand squeezing a rectangular shape under her cardigan, her fingers trembling with the hold. First she thought the older woman was trembling with exhaustion, but then she realized she was laughing, hysterically giggling as they fled into the night.

"Where do you think we should go?" Trish asked Mandy. Her room in the boarding house was watched and well-known to the cult, the police station was off-limits and the rest of Arkham she knew had turned out to be treacherous if not life-threatening.

"The campus," Mandy replied with conviction, panting as she jogged. The blood on her clothes was still wet. "I happen to know a lab forgotten by the faculty and the student body alike. No one would venture down there but the most desperate."

"Sounds like an excellent fit," Trish said drily, and Daisy made an agreeable noise, although what she said afterwards was in an unknown language.


	15. Chapter 15

Daisy had never been to Mandy's laboratory, lying so deep within the Miskatonic University Natural Science Building it was literally underground. She barely saw it now; her vision swam with letters and signs that only her occult knowledge could translate into something comprehensible, and everywhere she laid down her foot, she could feel a tremble in the earth. Something was stirring, underneath them. Something vast and too horrifying to behold. _Eihort._ She had caught a glimpse of it in a vision on the Unvisited Isle, but it was looming closer now, not a warning but a promise.

She had reluctantly handed over the last volume of the _Revelations_ to Mandy, because her strength had failed her, and she had slumped down on the only chair in the room like a puppet with cut strings. Daisy longed for the book, for its obscure yet enticingly foreign imagery and the power its knowledge promised. She had never read anything like these tomes.

"To counter a summoning spell," Mandy said, slowly making sense of the writing. Daisy was impressed she could even read it. "No, no -- it's a banishing we need, isn't it? If they're performing their ritual even now--"

Scarborough paced the room, eager for something physical to distract her. The harsh electric light made her blonde hair white, her skin all but translucent. "There's only one way out of this place," she said, low and ominous. "If they come for us, we can't escape. It must work, Mandy. It's our only chance."

"All right." Mandy sounded distracted, her eyes skimming over the text. "All right. We can do this, but... It's going to take all of us. And we're going to need blood."

"How much blood?"

Mandy looked up from the book, her mouth a tight line. "How much can you spare?"

Daisy's entire body was thrumming with exhaustion and pain. But her brain ruled over all other organs, and it demanded her to move. She hoisted herself up, and joined Mandy. "You've found the spell?"

"Yes. It has to be channelled through all of us. We need a circle." Mandy started to push her desk to the side, making more room. She handed Daisy the book, and she dove into its dizzying depths like a drunkard into a bottle.

"And the blood?" Scarborough asked, seeming somewhere far away, now that the book was finally in Daisy's hands.

"I did mention a circle, didn't I? Don't worry. I have some rubbing alcohol and clean instruments here." 

"Why on earth do you have those?"

"No more questions, Trish! If we run out of time, so does the entire Arkham -- the world, for all we know!"

Mandy and Scarborough moved around Daisy, like phantoms, flickering about. Daisy's mind was busy running through the ritual, snagging on obscure phrases, delighting in recognized details. Mandy was right. They could do this. They could save everyone.

The other two didn't ask for her blood. She was drained from the spells, her body feeling fragile and useless. Scarborough ended up bleeding the most. Poor girl, she had always been so pale to begin with. When she took her place in the circle, she swayed but kept her back straight.

After they all took their places, Daisy's comprehension of the events turned rather hazy. All sense of time was lost, here in the earth calling to other forces of the earth, their words echoing through time to the prehistoric days when their planet had been young and cruel, and different masters had ruled it. Scaly hands had grasped the pens that had scribbled down the spells then, guided by other hands that were but slithering tentacles.

"With me," Mandy said, somewhere in time and space, and they started chanting as one, their human voices giving form to names that were not made for human mouths.

Everything trembled now, violently, the earth churning as Eihort stirred from its slumber. Its tentacles reached through the earth to grasp at their pitiful mortal domain, the human beings that were but incubator shells to be used and discarded, as meaningless as the lowest insects. They spawned and they spread across the globe, and for what? To be wiped out entirely, whenever the whims of the greater beings so demanded.

But the words they chanted were older than humankind. To her right, Daisy could sense Trish's power waning, her voice a whisper whereas Daisy's was a scream at the void. Mandy, who had drawn the symbols and painted the seal on their heads, to keep them safe for the ritual, was losing her voice as well.

"Through me," Daisy said, although she didn't think she had spoken at all. Their minds were attuned to one another, and they understood what needed to be understood. "Channel it through me, both of you. I will carry it the rest of the way."

There was no other choice. As her companions fell from her side, Daisy felt a surge of unimaginable power coursing through her, sweeping her along and bringing her forth until she faced the void, naked and alone. She screamed in terror, then, all words forgotten, as the void opened its thousand eyes and stared at her. All turned to bright, absolute madness, and the limits of her human comprehension became Daisy Walker's only salvation.


	16. Chapter 16

"Oh yes," the elderly psychologist said, his smile as bright as his white coat. "We offer the latest in psychiatric care, from expression therapy to hypnosis, and our staff are highly trained and fully qualified. Rest assured, Miss Thompson. Your friend is in excellent hands."

Someone screamed about spiders, not far away. Trish tilted her cigarette and raised an eyebrow. "Expression therapy?"

The psychologist didn't like her, Mandy realized, to her dark joy. "Yes. Art therapy, in other words. We've found painting pictures to be a wonderful mirror--"

"What kind of pictures?" Now Trish was being cruel, like a cat with its half-dead prey, but Mandy couldn't bring herself to stop her. Trish looked the part, in her severe black suit, her injuries treated and covered with make-up and a fresh wardrobe. Her new heels were higher, and her smiles wider. Her suitcase sat next to her, and she looked ready to be whisked off to play a role of a fabulous maneater in a moving picture.

"Pleasant imagery is encouraged--"

"Flowers?" Trish reached towards the ashtray to butt out the cigarette. "Petunias, perhaps?"

The man had had enough. "Ah, indeed... Miss Thompson, if I could have your signature, please? I should-- I really must get on with my duties."

Mandy signed the papers, not caring about the expense, and the three of them were left alone at last.

"Well," Daisy said, "I'm in your debt, my dear."

In the pajamas issued by the Arkham Asylum, and with her hair tied back, she looked younger, more vulnerable. She looked like she might like to paint a few petunias, in fact.

"Nonsense," Mandy said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You nearly ended up committing me, or Trish, or both of us. It was a mutual undertaking after all. It's only money, anyway."

Daisy smiled, and blinked rapidly, reaching out for Mandy's hand without a word. She was glad to offer it.

"I'd love to stay until you're better on the mend, Daisy, but I'm a marked woman in this city," Trish said, taking her suitcase and standing up. "I should be on my way, before I get caught up in another sinister plot."

Mandy stood up as well, to shake her hand. Trish looked so marvellously authoritative she felt like she should kiss it instead. "Where are you headed next?"

"It occurs to me that a cult with a reach as wide as this cannot be stamped out so easily." Trish's mouth quirked. "Someone ought to organize a resistance against them. Someone with experience in covert operations and intelligence gathering. Who knows what else lurks underneath the earth, after all?"

"It sounds to me like you're going to make yourself even more marked, by the time you're through," Daisy said, not a hint of disapproval in her tone.

Trish straightened her very smart jacket. "Keep an ear out. I might send word to you two one day, if I happen to need any help saving the world. You've proven yourselves to be quite resourceful."

"We'll be there," Mandy promised. "Take care of yourself, Trish."

Trish lay her hand on Daisy's shoulder for a moment, and then walked out, her head held high.

Left on her own with Daisy, Mandy found she didn't feel the need to talk. She took the opportunity to simply breathe in deep, even if the air smelled like antiseptic, and allow herself to believe they had made it. All her research, all those endless hours spent perusing nigh incomprehensible documents -- it had been worth it. It had saved them.

She thought of her sword, then, and the way it had accepted the clasp of her hand so well, and smiled to herself. A silly thing, to be so attached to, but there it was.

"You know, I still haven't met your cat," she said, at length.

Daisy looked up, and her surprise quickly melted into delight. She took Mandy's hand in hers again, and Mandy sank to sit on the edge of her bed. There they lingered for a long while, anchored to each other, which suited them fine.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Mandy asked Daisy, as she was preparing to get up and leave. "It's far from cozy, I know, but I can bring you something more to read."

"I'd appreciate it," Daisy said, and patted her arm. "I'll be out of here in no time, Mandy dear. Don't you worry about me."

Something shifted underneath the skin of her palm, but it was only a fleeting tremor, insignificant enough to be dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the fantastic prompts! I had an absolute blast writing this fic for you -- I'm afraid it's chock-full of little references to our group's gaming sessions, where the librarians always seem to end up saving the world. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it and have a wonderful Yule!


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